With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Those same emotions contorted the Vicar of Northwillow’s face now.

  Adam had two choices.

  He could let the old man die in agony and have those old eyes join countless others that still haunted him in nightmares. Or he could give Joshua Grafton-Moore his word and let himself in for a cartload of trouble.

  Adam grimaced, neatly trapped by the dregs of his own conscience. “I swear it, old man.”

  Joshua Grafton-Moore smiled. His trembling hand pressed the necklace into Adam’s palm, his transparent lids fluttering shut. “May God grant you peace for what you’ve done.”

  Not bloody likely, Adam thought grimly. What was that philosophy rubbish Gavin was always prattling about? That at the gates of heaven you’re given universal knowledge? One thing was certain. If that were true, the instant Joshua Grafton-Moore saw Adam Slade’s tally of sins in St. Peter’s book, the old vicar would be rising from his grave.

  The clipper ship Geana Fiadhaine, stole through the billows of mist like a phantom, leaving the harbor of Derrynane behind. Her hold, emptied of contraband French silks and brandies, tobacco and gilt mirrors, had been refilled with Irish wool for the return trip to France— and the captain of the smugglers had hardly objected to taking the notorious adventurer Sabrehawk on board. Especially when Sabrehawk’s purse was stuffed with gold.

  Adam leaned against the aft rail, watching the wild-spirited island as it seemed to sink into the sea. He should be feeling a keen sense of satisfaction. He’d cheated the fates again. Instead he was edgy as be-damned.

  Why the blazes should he feel so guilty? No one in their right mind could have expected him to drop everything and race back to some obscure village in England. The very notion was absurd. He’d gone to a lot more trouble than most men would have.

  He’d dispatched the vicar’s body to his landlord in England, instructing the man to see it delivered to Miss Juliet Grafton-Moore in the village of Northwillow. He’d dashed off a note to the woman and stuffed it into a box along with the necklace.

  Doubtless he’d made a muck of the note. He’d always avoided women like Joshua Grafton-Moore’s daughter as if they would give him the pox. No wonder, since they’d always looked at him as if they were Andromeda lashed to the rocks, and he was the Kraken ready to gnaw their flesh from their bones.

  Still, he’d done what he could to fulfill his promise to the old man, and he’d told Grafton-Moore from the beginning he had urgent business demanding his attention.

  He’d still keep his oath and check on the woman as soon as possible. But he had more pressing matters to tend to first.

  What difference would it make if he were a few months late?

  Adam closed his eyes, imagining the vicar’s daughter— thick brows, her father’s hawk nose, her mouth pinched from showering disapproval down on the village sinners. The old dragons of the parish were probably fighting over which one got the privilege of tending Juliet Grafton-Moore in her grief.

  Better she get her wailing done before Adam made his appearance, anyway. He scowled, irritated as the vicar’s voice echoed in his memory, desperate, imploring.

  Make certain she is safe.

  Juliet Grafton-Moore would still be there when he returned to England. What trouble could a vicar’s daughter possibly get into anyway?

  Chapter Two

  Someone had shattered the window again. Juliet Grafton-Moore’s hands trembled as she stared at the shards of glass scattered across her desk, the wood gouged by the brick in its center.

  She sucked in a steadying breath, trying to calm the erratic thud of her heart. But it raced even faster when she saw the grimy bit of paper tied to the missile. Another warning. There had been so many, they blurred in her mind.

  Wary, she tore the note from its mooring, then opened it.

  This time the window, a crude hand scrawled. Next time your face.

  She dropped the missive, rocked to the core by the violence in the threat. Who would write such a hateful thing? But the instant she asked the question, she dismissed it. She couldn’t begin to count the legions of enemies she’d made. Half of London would applaud any attack on one of the most notorious and hated women in the city.

  “You should be used to such nonsense by now, Juliet,” she chided herself sternly. “Last week they shattered all the windows on this side of the house.”

  But never, in the year since she’d left the village of Northwillow, had she become inured to such loathing. Never had she stopped being afraid.

  “Papa always said it was all right to be afraid as long as you still did what was right,” she murmured. And she was trying. Trying desperately hard.

  But she was failing. Miserably. And her gentle father could not help her anymore. Grief twisted afresh.

  He was dead. His compassionate eyes closed forever, his gentle hands stilled, the glow of faith and hope and love he’d worn like a mantle snuffed out.

  She could never return to the rose-draped vicarage in sleepy little Northwillow. Never run to him with her troubles, kneel down at the foot of his chair, and be told everything would be all right.

  “Papa, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sorry for so many things she could never make right.

  That they’d parted in anger. And that the gentle man who had guided so many souls to the gates of heaven had died forsaken by the side of an Irish road, with only a stranger at his side.

  Juliet sank down on the worn chair and opened a tiny door in the desk’s center. Her mother’s necklace formed a pool of lilies, atop it, a note from a man Juliet had never met. She drew the letter out, her talisman, to shore up her father’s belief that most men were good, that dignity of spirit triumphed, and that guardian angels watched over all.

  It was unfortunate there was no one to hand but a gruff old soldier like myself to help, but I did the best I could by him. Your father asked me to send you this necklace. I did my utmost not to break the thing. I gave your father my word of honor that I would come to you. I will do so as soon as I am able.

  Yr. most obedient servant,

  Adam Slade

  She’d pictured Adam Slade so clearly in the months that followed: Grizzled and gallant, with scars upon his jowly face and gnarled hands; One of those military men who would rather face a firing squad than anyone in petticoats; A man who turned brick red and blustered with excruciating shyness around females. She’d imagined him bent over his desk, blotting up a letter to a girl he’d never met, trying valiantly to get the words right.

  She’d had a hundred questions she’d wanted to ask about her father’s final hours. With all her heart, she’d wanted to thank this generous stranger for caring for her father when he could so easily have turned away. But Adam Slade had never marched up the winding road to the vicarage.

  She’d waited for him while she packed her few belongings. She’d watched for him as she tidied up the only home she’d ever known for the sour-faced new vicar and his prim spindle of a wife. The instant she’d unpacked her inkwell in the little house she’d bought with her modest inheritance, she’d written a letter to Widow Widdlemarch telling her where the old soldier could find her should he still come seeking.

  But he had never come.

  Juliet smoothed out the creases her fingers had worn into the parchment, an unexpected ache in her chest. Perhaps the old gentleman had grown ill. Maybe he’d even died. She hoped that he hadn’t died alone. But she was certain that her papa had been waiting to welcome him into heaven.

  Every night, she’d offered up prayers for his soul. But considering the crusty old man’s kindness and tender heart, she was certain he didn’t need them. He’d doubtless spent his life doing good works. And he’d not have allowed anyone to frighten him into behaving otherwise.

  She stiffened her shoulders, her spirits shored up just a little. She’d clean up the glass as she always did, then summon a glazier to mend the window.

  Her enemies would never drive her out with sha
ttered glass or crude threats. She’d go on just as she had from the beginning. Marching off about her business, smiling in their faces, and wishing them good day as she passed.

  There was nothing like dignity of spirit to put such cowardly foes in a murderous temper. But it was getting harder to keep her chin up every day.

  A timid knock at the door made Juliet straighten her shoulders, her chin bumping up a notch as she smoothed the last ripples of trouble from her lake-blue eyes.

  “Come in.”

  The door creaked open, the woman revealed in the opening hovering there like a wary fawn. Huge eyes, dark with secret sorrow, peered out from a face that looked far younger than her twenty-two years. Dark gold hair formed a nimbus of curls around cheeks pale as porcelain.

  Juliet felt the familiar urge to hasten over to Elise St. Aubin and shelter her from whatever was draining the light out of her eyes.

  “They—they broke the window again.” Elise eyed the mess, her lips quivering.

  Juliet scooped up the scrawled threat, cramming it into the pocket tied round her waist. “I’m beginning to think that the glazier sends his apprentices around to do it so they can be assured of work. They must be eating beefsteak seven days a week on what I pay them.” She flashed the girl a smile, but it died on her lips. “Elise, what’s wrong?”

  “They’re coming again.” The young woman’s eyes filled with tears. “A whole mob of them.”

  Juliet didn’t even have to ask whom Elise meant. She raced to the window on the east side of the room, and looked down into the street below. The distinguished homes of bankers and merchants were closed up tight with disapproval where they faced the brick front of Juliet’s Angel’s Fall. Their stuffy facades seemed puffed up with the righteous indignation of a row of crabbed spinsters.

  It was as if the buildings were drawing their skirts out of the way, so they wouldn’t brush the crowd of people jostling their way toward Juliet’s red brick house. Torches cut orange holes in the twilight. Raucous voices slurred with gin battered against the prudish rows of houses. Juliet could imagine the uproar the crowd was causing behind her neighbors’ shuttered windows.

  “Oh, bother!” Juliet said. “The last time these fools charged down here, Solicitor Barnes summoned the charley to accuse me of disturbing the public peace!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Go out there and chase them off, of course.”

  “No, Juliet! You cannot! It’s too dangerous!”

  “If I don’t chase them off, the constable might take me on a visit to Newgate!”

  She winced at her carelessness as Elise’s face turned ashen with panic—the legacy of a childhood spent with her debtor father behind the prison’s cold walls. “I’m sorry,” Juliet said, laying a hand on the girl’s cheek. “I was only jesting. Nothing is going to happen to me.”

  “You can’t be certain of that. They’re in an ugly temper, Juliet. Even uglier than last week. I heard them.”

  Juliet wished she could dive under the covers and drag pillows over her head until the mob tired of tormenting her and wandered off to find other prey. She swallowed the lump of dread in her throat and forced a game smile. “Listen to me, sweeting. These people are cowards. Cowards only fling words and nasty threats. If they’re confronted face to face, they flee.”

  “You don’t know these men like I do. You don’t know how cruel they can be.”

  Yes I do, a voice echoed in Juliet’s head. I see it every time I look into your eyes, into the eyes of the other women of Angel’s Fall. I vow, they’ll never be able to hurt you again.

  “Stay up here, Elise. Lock yourself in your room. I’ll come for you when it’s over and we’ll go down to the kitchen for a bit of tea.”

  “N-no. I... oh, please, Juliet. Please don’t do this!” Tears trickled down Elise’s cheeks.

  But Juliet was already marching down the stairs. She heard the hesitant patter of Elise following her and saw a half-dozen other ladies peering at her from doorways or behind corners.

  As she reached out to open the door a hand caught her elbow. She turned, to find Elise thrusting something into her hand. A frilly parasol.

  “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about my complexion out there,” Juliet said gently.

  “I thought . . . you might need something to drive them away.”

  Juliet couldn’t help the wry smile that tugged at her mouth as she imagined this surly mob confronted with such a fearsome weapon.

  But she’d never hurt Elise’s feelings. “Lock the door behind me,” she said.

  Elise nodded.

  Steeling herself, Juliet opened the portal and stepped out into the twilight. Hostility hit her in a blistering wave, a roar erupting from the mob as they saw her.

  She tried not to show her fear. But the crowd was larger than before, and angrier. Twenty-five, maybe thirty people. Mostly men, from half-pay officers eagerly flinging away their fortunes to rough-hewn sailors red-faced from gin.

  But all of them had traits in common as well. Their eyes were heavy-lidded from debauchery, their mouths curled in ugly sneers. At the head of the mob sailed a woman decked out in puce satin. Her eyes were hard as agates, her hands thick and strong as a man’s.

  Juliet could imagine just how ruthless those hands could be when cuffing frightened girls as she forced them into the elegant rooms she kept for her wealthy patrons.

  Mother Cavendish. Of all the wicked people she’d met in her year in London, there was no one Juliet hated more. Notorious for her nursery for courtesans, Mother traveled the London stews, convincing starving families to sell their most beautiful daughters—promising they’d never be hungry again. And they hadn’t been. They’d traded the crude gnawing in their stomachs for a more exquisite kind of hell.

  A mere glimpse of that woman poured steel down Juliet’s spine.

  “There she is, lads!” Mother Cavendish cried. “There’s the woman who’s stolen what’s ours!”

  “We’ve come for our women!” a half-pay officer of about thirty called out, brandishing his walking stick in the air. “Violet!” he bellowed at the window. “Come out here at once! You know I’ve got just what you need tucked beneath the flap o’ my breeches!”

  “Violet has made it quite clear she doesn’t want anything to do with you,” Juliet said steadily. “You’ve no right to continue harassing her this way.”

  “No right? I’ve spent a fortune on that greedy little piece. Sapphire bracelets, silks and satins. Her bill at the dressmaker’s is twice as large as my wife’s!”

  A roar of laughter erupted from the crowd. “At that price you should own the girl, body an’ soul, Percival!” a portly man with missing teeth blustered. “This bonneted thief stole three of my favorite wenches! I’m not leaving till I get em back.”

  “You’d best get used to sleeping on the cobblestones then. I’ll not surrender one of them to you.”

  “Then we’ll have to take them!” A brutish little man shouldered his way to the front. “We could tear this place down brick by brick with you inside it, and no one would lift a finger to stop us!”

  It was true. The danger was that her neighbors would come out with their garden wheelbarrows to help.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” Juliet said.

  “Then you shouldn’t o’ stole from us!” Missing Teeth blustered. “I’ll not be turned away without Millicent! No bloody interfering thief in petticoats will stop me from taking her!”

  Juliet glimpsed Mother Cavendish’s sly eyes, her carmine-painted lips twisted in a triumphant grin. “They’re mine,” the old woman murmured. “Body and soul. And they always will be.” The bawd wheeled to the mob. “Fling this interfering chit out of our way, Percival, and let’s get what we came for!”

  Dread thrummed in Juliet, and she could sense Elise’s terror, as the girl cowered behind the door. She’d promised she’d keep her safe.

  The man called Percival took a threatening step toward Juliet.
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  She thrust the parasol toward him. “Come one step nearer, and I’ll stab you!”

  “Be careful, or she’ll skewer your man-parts so you won’t be shaggin’ anyone, Percival!” Mother Cavendish jeered.

  “I’m bone-deep terrified, so I am! Take a hell of a lot more t’ drive me off than a parasol!” The man’s nasty laugh erupted into a howl of pain as Juliet smacked the parasol into his nose. Blood spurted out, a roar of fury echoing from the rest of the crowd.

  Juliet stumbled back a step, her back colliding with the door to Angel’s Fall. She didn’t dare ask Elise to open it. If she did, these animals would pour into the corridors and chambers.

  In a heartbeat, Juliet heard a swish of steel as a sword-stick was unsheathed. Percival’s features twisted into a brutish snarl. “You’ll pay for that, woman!”

  “You’re absolutely right, Percival,” a rich baritone rang out. The crowd split in the wake of a man’s massive shoulders. “Someone should definitely take the woman in hand.”

  Juliet gaped at the daunting figure that jostled toward her. A giant who seemed carved of stone cliffs and midnight. He towered above the other men. His ebony hair was drawn back from a face that was hard as granite, all stark planes and angles. Eyes black as the devil’s soul seemed to see past Juliet’s rigid shoulders and the determined set of her chin to where her knees wobbled with terror.

  Which one of the poor ladies of Angel’s Fail had been at this monster’s mercy? Juliet wondered faintly. His mere presence was so overwhelming she could scarcely breathe.

  Percival shot him a fulminating glare. “Who the devil are you? And what’s your business here?”

  “I’ve come to fetch a lady, just like you. She’s led me the devil of a chase.” White teeth flashed in a dangerous smile. “As for my name—they call me Sabrehawk. Perhaps you’ve heard of me?”

  “Sabrehawk? The Prince of Sin!” a carrot-topped sailor crowed. “Stand back, boys! He’ll pluck this pigeon right enough!”